


Born to Lose

by BarnesRogersVsTheWorld



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 12:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14520588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarnesRogersVsTheWorld/pseuds/BarnesRogersVsTheWorld
Summary: Bucky knows what it’s like to lose. And worst of all is losing you.





	Born to Lose

Bucky likes the sound his fingers make against the fire escape on the building across from yours. The rhythmic metallic pings he taps along the stairs momentarily distract him from his thoughts. They temporarily relieve the shame knotted in his chest. The gut-clenching exasperation over exactly how much more frustrating his life has become since knowing you.

He sits just beneath the arm of his closest friend, rendered sky high on the brown brick behind him in obnoxiously primary colors. Mural-Steve wields his shield like the Discobolus, the contours of his muscular body painted with such attention to detail that it’s nearly obscene. Bucky remembers snickering whenever he used to see it.

Now, he only remembers you.

*

He doesn’t need the ministration of Tony Stark to notice you. Bucky notices you the moment you walk up to the bar, just on the other side of Steve, and ask for a martini, dirty.

Your blouse is white, tucked into a navy skirt that swings when you move. There’s something about the way you’ve waved your hair and painted your lips that Bucky finds nostalgic. That makes him feel the tiniest flicker of the man he was years ago. It’s an odd feeling, not entirely uninviting. 

“Loosening up around the boss, are we?” Tony projects to you over the noise as he passes. A serial mingler, he can’t stay still.

Bucky watches your mouth quirk, “I didn’t think Pepper could make it tonight.”

It’s not too much of a surprise to him. Everyone in the room either works for Stark Industries or is with someone who does. He finds himself smiling at your retort. 

Tony pulls a face, “Sass,” he says as he continues past you, “too much of it.” He looks to Steve, who’s also watching the exchange, and gestures toward you, “Keep an eye out for trouble.” And then he’s gone. 

Steve’s responding remark about having to live with Tony makes you laugh. You introduce yourself to him. Bucky commits your name to memory. You laugh a little again upon Steve’s reciprocation. 

“I know who you are,” you say, waving a dismissive hand, “I wake up next to you every morning.”

You pause after another sip of your drink, a tight lipped smile indicative of your realization of how your words must’ve sounded.

Bucky straightens in his seat. Steve raises his eyebrows with amused interest.

You swallow, make a little bashful noise as you explain, “I just meant there’s a mural on the building across from mine. Just outside my bedroom window. You know…” you make an air quote with your fingers, “Hometown Hero...” you trail off. You shrug your shoulders. Your expression is sheepish. Bucky finds the exchange extremely endearing.

“Incredible likeness, isn’t it?” He interjects, unable to resist. Partially because he wants to talk to you, but also because he can never pass up acknowledging his favorite mural. Beside him, Steve tilts his head back in slight exasperation, because he knows. Bucky can almost hear Steve calling him an ass.

For the first time, your gaze shifts to him. Your eyes are bright as you take in the silent exchange between to two men. He swears you wink when you answer, “Uncanny.”

“Bucky,” he says to you. Because it’s all he can think to say. But he needs to say something. He needs you to know his name.

You smile and nod, as if you already do. And this both surprises and pleases him more than it probably should. 

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.” 

Your eyes are warm, words like honey. Bucky smiles back, and it’s like a tether pulls between the two of you.

“So you’re from Brooklyn?” Steve clips the moment. Not intentionally.

“Not originally. But I call it home now.”

“All the good ones do.” And it’s so much easier for him now. The flirtatious lilt to his words. The slight smile. He isn’t even trying. In all honesty, he probably isn’t even aware. Bucky feels like he’s in an alternate universe.

But your eyes only briefly shift to Steve during the exchange before returning to Bucky. It’s a piercing, soul searching gaze. And he wonders if you feel the same unsettling pull that now courses through him.

*

He would swear it wasn’t what it looked like if he had anyone to swear it to. He didn’t plan on sitting across from your building, staring into your unoccupied windows. He hates himself a bit for it. For analyzing the small bits of your unobscured spaces, hoping for what, he isn’t exactly sure.

The lights under your kitchen cabinets are on, illuminating the countertops beneath them. Bucky can see unopened mail piled neatly on the L bend of your counters, a bunch of bananas splayed beside it.

 

“I have a lot to do today, Buck.”

He follows in your wake, deftly saving a sheet of paper from the top of the stack you’re carrying as it tries to catch the wind. He doesn’t know what he likes better, the fact that you’ve shortened his name for the first time, or the look of affectionate gratitude on your face as he returns the page to its rightful place.

He’s become familiar with your smile lately. Something about the knowledge that you’re only a few floors below him during most waking hours has him seeking out any reason to cross your path. It’s how he finds himself asking you to grab lunch for the third time in a week after his quick interference run for Tony of all people.

You resume your harried pace to your office, heels clicking a staccatoed beat across the marble floor. Your hair is pulled back save for a few unruly strands that insist on flying about your face. 

“Pepper is a merciless perfectionist,” you steal a quick glance over your shoulder at him, your expression guilty, “Don’t tell her I said that. Not that it’s a bad thing. It’s coming from a place of admiration. Just...the word ‘merciless’ may not be best to convey that.”

Bucky steps around you to shoulder open your office door. Your arms are too full to do it yourself.

“Thank you,” you say, dropping the heavy stack of files you’re carrying onto your desk. He remains in the doorway, leaned against the frame. You turn to him, blowing those pesky hairs from your face. 

“You want me to bring you anything?” 

“No,” you shake your head, place your hands on your hips, “No, I’m just going to buckle down. Nothing but work until I’m through.”

“You have to eat.”

“I have a banana in my desk which I should’ve eaten yesterday but someone wanted lunch from a hot dog cart.”

Bucky grins. A hot dog cart and a long winded conversation neither of you had necessarily planned on having. A conversation that afterward had kept you at your desk until after the sun had set. Bucky had apologized for it. You’d told him not to. 

He folds his arms across his chest now, “I tried to talk you out of it, but you’re pretty persistent.”

You huff a laugh, raising your eyebrows. You look as if you’re about to protest, but your eyes meet his, and your expression softens. You close your open mouth and shake your head. 

“You have the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen,” you say to him after a beat of silence.

And just the way you say it does something to him. Touches something in the recesses of his soul. He feels his chest constrict. He wants to say something, but before he has the chance, you’re walking toward him.

“You’re trouble, Bucky Barnes,” and you’re lighter now, eyes bright as you grab the open door, ”And I need to focus. On something other than you.”

Bucky steps away from the frame, hands up in mock surrender. Your words make him acutely aware of the blood that hums through his veins. You offer him an exasperated grin as you push the door closed.

He feels significantly less heavy for the rest of the afternoon. Steve wonders what it is that has him smiling so much.

*

He hears you before he can see you. Muffled laughter familiar enough to send his heart into a cartwheeling spiral. He shifts slightly further into the shadows. My god, he thinks, is he really so pathetic?

And then there you are. And his memory does you no justice. Your hair is up. Your stride is slow. Your laugh is bright. You pass beneath a streetlamp, and the light bounces off your dress.

Green.

And yes, he thinks, as the ache intensifies.

Yes, he is.

*

It’s one thing to see you in the tower. To grab lunch with you on your break. To stop by your office and say hi. It’s another thing entirely to see you on a night you’re both free.

Neither of you call it a date, but Bucky would be lying if he said he hadn’t spent more time than usual choosing the right thing to wear. He finally settles for a smoke hued Henley layered under a bomber jacket paired with dark wash jeans and boots.

He thinks his choice is fine, but then he sees you, and you are a vision. Bottle green boat necked dress that flares into a circle skirt. Your heels are nude and your lips are red and Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever seen a woman as beautiful as you.

Dinner then dancing. It’s his choice because it’s what he knows. Or what he hopes muscle memory will help carry him through. It’s a big band ensemble, a rooftop dance floor with views of East River. 

He’s stiff at first, uncertain of his movements. But you are confident and radiant and you ease his reservations. You let him hold you close. You laugh and smile and when you speak to him your mouth is so close to his ear it raises the hairs along the back of his neck, down the length of his arm. 

And Bucky laughs. You make him smile and laugh so much it makes his face hurt. It revives some old, lost part of James Buchanan Barnes. He spins and twirls and dips and lifts you and wishes he could hold on to you forever, lost in a magical loop of time where nothing else matters.

You dance until the crowd thins. Until the music turns slow and moody and he loses his jacket and you want to lose your shoes but you still want to dance with Bucky. So you dance with bare feet until you are the last ones standing. And when you don’t want to put your shoes on to leave, Bucky lifts you despite your protests that you can walk just fine. And you laugh, but it’s easy for him, so you let him carry you home. 

He sets you down outside your building, and the idea of going home without you makes him ache. Because right now you feel like home.

He wonders if he was always so hopeless.

Your eyes are sleepy and your hair is starting to fall, and you’re telling him how much fun you’ve had but he can’t stand the wait any longer because all he’s thought about for the entire walk home is whether or not he’ll work up the nerve to kiss you. 

So he kisses you. 

Bucky kisses you, and he can’t imagine that he’s ever really kissed anyone before, because if kissing felt like this it would be etched into the forefront of his mind. An indelible, untouchable memory anchoring him to himself.

But maybe that’s just kissing you.

Your arms snake inside his jacket and coax him closer. He cradles your face in his hands, backs you gently against the wall, kisses you breathless.

He is the first to pull back, thumbs sweeping the sides of your face. You sigh through your nose and slowly open your eyes. Your hands drift to his hips. And you have the sweetest smile as you look up at him.

And you laugh.

For a moment there’s a crushing insecurity that he’s done something wrong. That he hasn’t remembered how to properly kiss. That he’s absolutely terrible at it. Then you reach a hand up to his mouth. You wipe a thumb across his lip. 

Red. 

Your lipstick.

He smiles. Relief courses through him. He touches his forehead to yours. His hands drop, searching for your hands, your fingers lightly twine. 

He kisses you again. He wears off all your lipstick.

*

If you were alone, maybe he’d have the courage to drop down beside you. 

He’s imagined it more than he cares to admit. The first time you see him again. Your eyes brightening. Your red lips curving into a smile. You’d throw your arms around him. Press your mouth against his. Say words to him the way you used to. The way that made his blood vibrate.

But you’re not alone. And Bucky's fantasies are simply that. He knows how it would truthfully go. He’s lived it.

So he doesn’t drop down beside you.

Instead, he hovers in the shadows above, like some goddamned demented stalker.

He leans his head back, knocking it against the brick. 

Hometown Hero, my ass.

* 

“Thank you for dinner.”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky answers sweetly, putting away the final dish you dried. He turns to you, corners you in the L bend of the kitchen counters, places a hand on either side. 

“Thank you for washing up,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” your responding smile is sleepy. Your hair is soft and down from an earlier updo, your shirt wrinkled from where it was previously tucked into your skirt. You’re barefoot again. Bucky likes you this way. Barefoot, a bit disheveled. You look like an angel.

He leans forward, presses a kiss to your jaw.

“Thank you for being so pretty,” he murmurs. 

And you make a noise in the back of your throat, “What a line, Barnes.” You kiss his nose, quick and cute, before worming out of his grasp and stepping around him. You pick up your glass from dinner, and finish what’s left of your wine.

But Bucky can’t resist being close to you. He sidles up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, draws your back against his chest, “Want more?”

It takes a moment to realize he’s asking about the wine. You breathe a laugh through your nose, “No. It's getting late. I should go.”

He noses along your neck. Presses his lips against the nape. “You could stay,” he murmurs finally, surprised by his own brazenness. He worries it’s too forward, tacks on quickly, “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You shake with silent laughter, lean your head back against his shoulder, “I’m torn between telling you not to be ridiculous and the idea of having that big, comfortable looking bed all to myself.”

Bucky smiles. His mouth touches that stretch of skin just below your ear. You shiver, much to his liking.

“I don’t have pajamas,” you say. Not with a lot of resolve. 

“Wear mine,” he answers. His heart is pounding so hard against his chest he thinks you may feel it. His lips touch your shoulder.

“Stay,” he says again.

You turn your head slightly, angling it up to kiss him.

When Sam and Steve show up, Bucky excuses himself briefly, subtly slipping into his room to check the state of it. It’s not like you haven’t seen it before, but suddenly he is acutely aware of the clutter. Quickly, he stacks a few wayward books, shoves some unworn clothing into his closet and forces it closed. The task feels oddly human. A normalcy he is becoming more accustomed to thanks to you. It makes him smile.

You’re standing between Steve and Sam when he returns to the common space. None of you notice. 

A pretty young woman in a blazer smiles through the television screen, her teeth unnaturally white, “Tonight local residents are grateful for one man who thwarted an armed robbery attempt on passengers of the southbound L train in Brooklyn early this morning.”

Bucky feels a hard thump in his chest. He moves closer, eyes on you.

“According to unnamed sources, this man, or super-man rather, is thought to be none other than local Avenger, Winter Soldier. Perhaps this is a rare glimpse of the man behind the mask?”

“Unnamed sources?” Steve speaks over the broadcast, “I’ve seen it. Doesn’t even look like him. How would they know?”

“Movement analysis?” Sam suggests, “Side by side comparisons. Probably YouTube. You wouldn’t believe the preoccupations of some people. Makes you look normal.”

Steve frowns at the joke. But you give no indication of hearing their exchange as the newscaster cautions the suitability of what they’re about to show.

Bucky’s already seen the video, too. It’s shaky, taken off the half concealed phone of a bystander.

Two men in the middle of the train. One brandishing a Beretta M9, the other a clip point Ka-Bar. Their words are muffled, barely distinguishable in the recording, but their intentions are clear.

Bucky knows you’re seeing it for the first time. He knows if you’d have known you would have said something the moment you saw him tonight. A twinge of guilt nags at him as he watches your eyes widen.

Steve’s right, Bucky is unrecognizable in the video. Long sleeves, gloves, heavy jacket. His hair is tucked into the cap pulled low over his eyes. He is indistinguishable from any other passenger on the train.

Until he moves.

The knife wielder is his first target. The one who chooses to move in his direction, while the other man moves the opposite way, stalking out of frame.

One moment Bucky is a terror victim. His hand moves almost lazily to unclasp the expensive looking watch on his wrist. Jokes on the robber, because it only cost a tenner. Then, lightning fast, his hands dart out, locking the man’s wrist, thrusting his arm downward as he butts his head hard against him. One hand jumps to the man’s shoulder, stretching and overextending his arm, and Bucky takes him down with a swift knee to his exposed torso. 

There’s shouting as he crouches to fully disable the man. The camera swings out of frame, swings back to the other man now directly behind Bucky, gun pressed into his hat. It’s not a warning, but rather an identification of a threat. An elimination. He doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. But the camera falls again, the wielder swears, and it’s bleeped out of the broadcast. There’s a bang. More screaming. 

In front of the screen, you flinch. Bucky watches your hand raise to cover your mouth. The recording is nothing but muffled rustling and brief flashes of light for a few seconds. And then it’s the cameraman’s face, he can’t be older than 19, “Holy fuck,” he shouts, a blur of movement as he rotates his phone. Bucky’s there. Completely unscathed. The recording goes black.

The newscaster returns to the screen, bright white teeth and all. Bucky doesn’t hear what she says. He reaches out to touch you, just above your elbow.

You practically jump out of your skin.

“Stealth moves,” Sam says, also noticing Bucky for the first time, “impressive for a half robot.”

Bucky doesn’t entertain the tease. He doesn’t even respond to Steve, who nudges him, comments that he’ll soon join the ‘Hometown Hero’ wall. 

He only cares about you. Your incredulous expression. Your wide, fearful eyes. The ‘Why’ behind them. Why hadn’t he said anything to you? 

Bucky shrugs at your unasked question, shakes his head, “Was nothing.”

“Don’t let him fool you. He isn’t modest,” Sam interjects. Bucky wants to hit him, but the words seem to snap you out of your daze. You turn to Sam, offer him an overly bright grin. 

But it isn’t authentic. Bucky can tell. He notices the way you flit your eyes past him and blink, as if trying to conceal the rapid fire thoughts now racing behind them.

He touches you again, and tension radiates off your skin.   
Steve and Sam lose themselves in a debate over tactical disarming methods. Bucky runs his fingers along your arm, urges you to look at him again. When you finally do, your expression is unreadable.

“Hey,” he says. Gently. “You okay?”

“Sure thing, Winter Soldier,” you nudge against him. Your lips curve into a smile. You raise onto your toes and press a kiss to his lips. 

But you don’t stay.

And Bucky doesn’t see you the next day. Or the next. Or the day after that. You don’t return his calls. You change your hours. Make them less predictable. Work outside of the office.

And Bucky feels it. He feels your absence like a dull fist of pain, slowly tightening its grasp on his insides, strangling the air from his lungs. 

Steve notices. And Bucky hates to see the concern in his eyes.

He hates the frantic desperation that starts to bubble inside him when he can no longer stand the silence.

You hate elevators. He knows you take them out of necessity only. Never when you don’t have to. And never alone. It’s how he knows to wait for you in the stairwell of the tower the next night you’re late to leave. He waits a flight above your exit, drops down onto the landing in front of you as you begin to descend.

You come to an abrupt halt. Clutch your chest, “Jesus,” you breathe, “you scared the hell out of me.”

He’s silent at first. Taking you in. You already look different. Your affectionate smile, your bright eyes, they’re replaced by something tired now. Weary.

The grasp on his insides tighten, the first thing he says is your name, and it’s strained, painful. You blink. Breathe shakily through your nose.

“I have a train to catch,” you whisper. And Jesus, it hurts. It’s a painful confirmation of Bucky's nagging worries. The final snuff of any hope of misunderstanding on his part.

“Don’t do this,” he says. His voice is pleading. Not his own. You cast your gaze downward.

“Don't shut me out,” he says, “like I am nothing to you.”

And you shake your head as if in denial. But you don’t look up. “You are my friend,” you say. And it’s almost worse than you saying nothing at all.

He turns away from you, grips the handrail secured to the wall so tightly it will leave behind impressions of the fingers on his left hand. 

“We’re not just friends and you fucking know it.” 

Despite the words, his tone is not aggressive. It’s a pained whisper.

“You know it,” he repeats. Amends. He turns toward you again. A desperate, gritted plea for acknowledgment. He hates the way it sounds on his lips. The way it makes you wince.

“Bucky...” even the way you say his name hurts.

“Just tell me how,” he says, “How...how can we go from everything we were to nothing. How are we nothing?”

You shake your head again. You press your lips together. Your eyes are almost defiant, “We weren’t…” you begin, you pause, you sigh, “nothing was ever defined. Between us.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t water it down like that. Don’t make it seem like you never felt exactly how I did about us. How I do.”

You close your eyes briefly. Your forehead creases. It’s as if you’re fighting to keep your calm exterior. But then you open your eyes. You look at him. Your resolve crumbles.

“God. Bucky,” you whisper, “You could have died. I saw you. Right there. A hair's breadth away.”

Silence pulls between the two of you, taught and hard and uncomfortable. Your eyes are glassy.

“My fault,” you say. It’s gentle. “My fault for not thinking,” you shake your head, “I’m not stupid. I know what you do. I’ve just never…”

“So you’re afraid?” He presses, “To actually feel something. For me.”

“Making me answer that isn’t going to change anything.”

“So answer it,” he demands. Frustration bubbles inside of him.

“Everyone dies,” he blurts, it sounds angry, “If you’re holding out for someone who won’t-“

“Everyone dies,” you repeat, “they don’t all try to as willingly as you. I am sorry. But you’re asking me to accept the fact that every time I say goodbye to you it is potentially for the last time. I can’t.”

“That’s true for everyone.”

“It’s not the same, Bucky.”

“So you don’t even risk it? You go ahead and end it, because, fuck it, suffering on your own terms is much easier than having to worry about what might actually happen.”

He’s angry. But not angry at you. He can’t really be angry at you. And when you let the tears slip, he deflates completely.

“Please,” he says to you, “I don’t have to...I would…” 

His words taper off. But he doesn’t have to finish. You know what he’s trying to say. 

“Would you?” You press, “Would you walk up to Steve right now and say, ‘Sorry, pal, I’m through saving the world. My girl doesn’t want me to risk it.’” You laugh a silent, bitter laugh. Swipe at the tears.

He looks at you. Really looks at you. And despite anything that speaks against it, he feels it in his core when he answers, “I would for you.” 

But you shake your head again. You smile. It’s sad. There’s a note of finality in your reply, “I wouldn't ask you to.”

And the next time Bucky is on your floor, he passes by your office. Sees the woman behind your desk..

She’s small. Short, dark haired. Large eyes. Smiles too much.

She’s not you.

*

The man whose arm is looped with yours is tall. He's broad, his hair is dark, his jaw is defined and damn, it's almost like you have a type. Like the only thing missing is a bionic arm and a couple decades on the ice.

And Bucky doesn’t know what he is doing. He doesn’t know why he thought he needed to see it for himself. Why he thought it could possibly bring any resolution or closure to him.

All it does is hurt.

*

“Cole Hallund.”

Steve glances up at Bucky when he walks into the room. Bucky doesn’t like the expression on his best friend’s face. He can’t stand the pity, the sympathy. Steve says the name like it’s one Bucky will recognize.

He does. 

And Steve looks down again, at the file he is holding. The file Bucky requested. The one he’s poured over more times than he cares to admit.

Steve thumbs the pages. Flips past a few photos, scans a few papers. He shakes his head, “Just a kid from Brooklyn, pal. Two tours. Honorable discharge. No record...studies nuclear medicine...Jets fan…guess he likes watching the front end of the draft.”

Bucky doesn’t laugh at the joke. Steve doesn’t expect him to. 

“Buck,” he says, and it’s low, laced with concern, he closes the file, “You've gotta stop doing this to yourself.”

Bucky wants to take the file. Steve doesn’t offer it. He knows he won’t press for it. Bucky can’t look at him. He just quietly replies, “I know.”

The awful, horrible parts of him want some indication that Cole Hallund is not everything he seems. That he doesn’t make you as happy as he should. 

But you look like you are.

Happy. 

You smile. You laugh. You kiss him goodnight, and Jesus, Bucky can’t watch. 

And it’s obvious how you feel. How he feels. Because Cole Hallund waits in the street for your light to flicker on. He waits for you to appear in your window. To press your hand to the glass and wave goodbye. And he whistles as he walks away. He whistles like a goddamn man who has the world.

And Bucky thinks: he does.


End file.
